


A Warmth in Winter

by blaetter



Series: Christian Names [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Praise Kink, blushing Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 11:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blaetter/pseuds/blaetter
Summary: Holmes & Watson betake themselves on a walk in winter, and Watson makes Holmes blush. Including a kitsch ending only Watson would have preferred and that special Brettian coy act only he can perform so well.





	A Warmth in Winter

Holmes had always preferred walking as a means of clearing his head after a particularly dreadful case. When I first took rooms at Baker Street, often he would flounce off with hardly a notice and return some hours later, either with head clearer or nearer a cold than before. When he returned after Reichenbach, however, and I once again was with him more hours of the day than not in our rooms at 221B, these walks became one of our routines, myself being at that point one of his necessary and essential habits. I treasured these walks always, even when they were purely silent, and especially when he chattered my ear off with his scientific nonsense, his arm wrapped in mine. There is hardly a thing more endearing than Holmes on these walks, and especially in winter. 

For in winter, when the air is crisper and we each are bundled up against the wind, his pale cheeks are typically flushed an attractive rouge, a look which never fails to delight my spirit. To witness, before my eyes, a blushing Holmes -- even be it merely weather related -- upon my arm, smiling at me with his lips and in his eyes -- it might just be the end of my reason. I fear always that I give the game up when I smile back, and sometimes he smiles back at me, a knowing glance, and I wonder how much he knows.

One January, he spent his birthday holed up in bed with a dreadful cold. Upon his convalescence a week later, we had our first walk after the most recent snow. He was bundled up more so than usual, as illness typically brings out the cold-blooded in him physically (and the warm-blooded sentimentally, I have learned over these years). I opened my arm and he took it, intertwining it with his own. He was warm to the touch, through our coats and gloves, and when he looked up at me with one of his secret smiles, I couldn’t help returning it. As we set off through the park, utterly alone save a bird here and there, I found myself saying,

“Holmes, your colour has improved tremendously -- you look splendid.”

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, not moving his head much. “Much to your persistent doctoring, old chap.” There was a pause, a soft inhale of breath, and on the exhale, he added, “Splendid? Really?”

It was too late for me to back out now. I have always said that Holmes is a creature as sensitive to praise as any girl; perhaps at times, and it seemed only by praise from me especially, more so than any girl I have ever known. I smiled at him; if there was a glint in my eye, I let it be “Marvelous, truly.”

“Oh, Watson,” he said in a manner I knew meant he was being difficult to be difficult, rolling his eyes. He smiled, but it was a sadder smile that did not reach his eyes fully; he was not playing coy when he added, softly, almost to himself, “You do not know. How would you know?”

We came to a fork in the path; in the summer we typically veered left, for the small pond, and in the winter, we typically turned round and headed back, the cold having sunk into our marrow. I let him lead nearly every time, and this time, upon my hesitance, he veered us right.

We traipsed silently through a grove, our steps in unison as always. There seemed to be not a soul in sight, the only sounds surrounding us being the soft landings of snow and our softly-crunching footfalls. He slowed down then, pausing in thought, and I knew he was becoming sentimental. I echoed him as is my nature.

“How would I know?” I wondered. He grunted, his eyes fluttering to my face then away, to the ground, back to my face for a second, then at his feet. My heart swelled at his awkward hesitation and with the words I was about to utter. I took a deep breath, hoping I was aiming for the right spot, hoping I had understood him finally, and said, “Holmes, you look as dashing as ever.”

He turned to me then, stopping, an ornery glint in his eyes and a smile playing at his lips. “Dashing?”

I held his upper arms in adamance, stepping closer. “Handsome, Holmes, you always have been. I have always known.”

He fluttered his eyelashes then, his gaze still upon me, and before my very eyes, slowly but visibly, I watched his cheeks blush prettily. Oh, the colour on his so usually pale cheeks, scarcely hidden by his high collar: I wanted to kiss each of those cheeks and almost did then. His eyes still flickered to mine every now and then, and he was not hiding from me. It was a miracle; he was not hiding from me, letting me see the extent of his blush, the barest hint of hope in his countenance. He was charming, beautiful, exquisite, he was for my eyes alone and I never loved him more than in that very moment, when he first let me. 

“Beautiful,” I whispered, letting one word of my rambling thoughts out, and he blushed truly then, and lifted one hand to rest just at the side of my neck, a grasp he had managed very few times before, in intimate times, the last of which when he had spoken my Christian name as I revived him from some fit of his in that devilish case some months ago. The allusion of it did not escape me then, only made my heart thump heavily in my chest. 

“Watson,” he whispered, and I grinned, sliding one hand up to cup his cheek, and this was dangerous territory now. We were nearing an embrace, in the middle of the grove in our favourite park, but there wasn’t a soul around; I knew it, and I trusted Holmes to hear even the slightest hint of a footfall even in our precarious situation now. Oh, but I wanted to kiss him, and he seemed to be of a similar inclination, but it mustn’t be here, in the open, even if he looked this beautiful against the snowy white backdrop of our London. 

“Let us -- back to our rooms,” I rasped, unable to stop my thumb from spreading across that high cheekbone, and my gaze fell upon his lips. He tilted his head to push against my hand in that feline way of his, and I looked back up into his eyes only briefly, before I met my doom too early, and took his hand and led us back to our home. 

After three steps, he was at my side again as before, but his arm tighter around me and carrying a blush that travelled down even into his neck. My chest felt looser as I watched him, as though some tension in me had been released. In a way, I am sure it had. I realised the implications of what had just happened, and had an idea what was to come of us in the safety of our home, and to keep myself from beaming too brightly, I yanked him closer to me and let our feet march in unison into this new adventure.


End file.
